


An Unexpected Reunion

by Ilya_Boltagon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Meet the Family, Past Character Death, Past Torture, Past Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26951785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilya_Boltagon/pseuds/Ilya_Boltagon
Summary: Emeldir wife of Barahir dwells alone in Brethil, skeptical of the outrageous tales of her son's heroics, more than half convinced of her only son's demise, growing lonely and bitter. An intruder into her home late one evening changes her beliefs, with news that shocks her to her core.
Relationships: Beren Erchamion & Emeldir, Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel, Emeldir & Lúthien Tinúviel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

Emeldir sighed quietly as she added more logs to her small fire, her joints aching as she straightened. The house she kept in Brethil, among the Haladin people, was too large for her to truly care for alone, but she had had it built when two of her younger cousins-by-marriage, Morwen and Rían, had dwelt here with her. That had been when she had led most of her husband's people from the ruins of Dorthonion, when had that been, almost eight years ago now? She would have rather remained with her husband and son, defending their land, but that had not been possible.

The vast majority of the host she had led to Brethil had since moved on, to Dor-Lomin, lands held by the House of Hador, vassals of the Noldor king Fingon. Morwen and Rían had been among them, and news had reached Brethil that both maidens had married into the House of Hador. Emeldir wished them well, of course, but she had no intention of leaving Brethil herself.

Six years ago, word had been spread of the death of Barahir and his companions. Emeldir had grieved greatly for her husband, and screamed her wrath towards the North, to the Enemy who brought all this sorrow upon them, but still she had not left Brethil.

For tales, or rumors, of her son Beren's survival, as a lone outlaw, hunting down the Enemy's servants, flew hither and thither for some years after the death of Barahir. Like as not it was not true, but Emeldir could not bring herself to depart this place until she knew for certain. Three years ago, tidings of Beren had ceased altogether, but still Emeldir kept to this too-large house, although, she had thought wryly, it was more stubbornness than hope that kept her here now.

Then, over the last year and a half, Beren's name began to be murmured once again, among the young people, those who still longed to hear of heroes and epic quests. Emeldir had scoffed when some of these tall tales reached her ears: Beren had passed through Ered Gorgoroth and entered the fenced elven-realm of Doriath. Beren had won the heart of the Elf-king Thingol's enchantress daughter. Beren had set forth to claim a Silmaril from the Iron Crown with support from King Finrod of Nargothrond and Beren was the sole survivor in prison in that dread place. Tol-in-Gaurhoth had fallen with the aid of Thingol's daughter, to free Beren from captivity and death at Gorthaur's hands. Beren and Princess Lúthien had ventured as far as Angband, actually retrieved a Silmaril from the Enemy and lived- or both had died, then somehow returned to live again, which was preposterous, to Emeldir- Men were not as Elves, to return from death- and now Beren and the elf-princess were married. Oh, and some of the tales involved a great Wolf taking Beren's hand, literally biting it clean off, yet he survived that too, healed by Princess Lúthien's tears.

Honestly! The tales had grown wilder and more incredible with each telling! Thinking of it all now, Emeldir could only shake her head. The young people here wanted, needed, to believe there was hope in this world, and so they bore these tales to her with shining eyes, thinking she would be glad to hear these 'tidings' of her son, the now revered and legendary hero. She was not cruel enough to tell them it was likely all nonsense. She herself believed that Beren had indeed perished, either in Ered Gorgoroth, or, if _any_ of the events that followed were true, then he had been slain in the dungeons of Gorthaur. For if King Finrod, the Elf whom her husband had served and loved, had died in that fell place, there was little hope that Beren, a mere Man, had survived.

Waiting until the fire had grown enough to continue burning unaided, Emeldir sighed and returned to her chair, taking up the rough piece of sewing she had been working on. Really, why did she linger on in Brethil instead of moving to the lands where what remained of her kin still dwelled, in Dor-Lomin? Brethil lay on the very eaves of Doriath, and was likely safer than Dor-Lomin these days, she reasoned to herself.... oh, who was she fooling? She could not leave here, because despite _knowing_ all these fast-growing 'legends' of Beren and his bride could not be true, some small spark of hope deep within her would not allow her to depart. For what if she did indeed do so, and then it turned out, amid all the exaggerated tales, that Beren was, against all odds, alive?

If he did in fact come to seek her out... she needed to stay near to where he was rumored to be, in Doriath- most of the tales agreed upon that. Just in case.

She looked at her callused fingers, toughened from many needle-pricks, and laughed bitterly. How had she ended up this way? Once, she had been known as 'Man-hearted' for she had trained, and fought, and hunted alongside her menfolk, and found joy in it. Now, as she felt age creeping up on her, she sat alone in an empty house, idling away time sewing and weaving! _Beren would find this hilarious, if he could see me now. I taught him a good part of his skill in arms, now look what I have become_. In truth, she would be glad of his kindly mocking, if it proved he still lived, if he still thought of her enough to come and see her... No. Enough. It had been years since she had seen her son, and months since she had heard any rumor of him that was believable. Was she like to a child, clinging to false hope when wiser people shook their heads and sighed for such foolishness? Beren was long dead, and was never coming back. Winter was approaching. Emeldir shook her head. She needed to pack and leave Brethil, make her way to the home of the last of her kin, before the seasons made the road impassable. She would wait here no longer for the return of a ghost.

Something creaked, once, then twice. The fire flickered in the hearth. Not wishing it to be extinguished in the wind, Emeldir rose once more, this time going to the window, to be certain it was fastened correctly.

She stepped back, blinking. Odd. It seemed to be shut tightly, and yet, she was sure she had heard a sound: _something_ in the house had creaked, and caused a draft to affect the fire in the hearth. Narrowing her eyes, she listened hard: was that the brush of a footstep, outside this room? And, bizarrely, she could almost catch the scent of flowers, as if there were new blossoms in the house somewhere.

Outside, the sky was darkening, and a nightingale trilled as dusk began to fall. Emeldir, moving quietly as she was able, retrieved the small dagger she kept beside her chair. Even in Brethil, evil things could move in the dark, and her instincts said there was someone or something in her home uninvited.

Another whisper of a footstep, coming from the rear door of the house. Evidently, her 'visitor' did not wish to be seen by the people of Brethil who might be out at this hour, guards and the like. Emeldir's grip tightened on the dagger, as she inched forward, fully prepared to show the Orc, or Easterling, or whatever had broken in here, that they weren't welcome in her home.

She paused near the door of the main room, inhaling deeply, and still listening hard. Yes, through the closed door, she could just make out voices, though she did not understand the language, and the speakers were whispering. Plotting an ambush? If there was more than one intruder, she would have to move quickly, deal with one almost immediately if she was not to be overcome.

Grasping the door handle, and turning it, so slowly, with her free hand, she counted to three, then flung the door open with her dagger raised, prepared to plunge it into the heart of whoever this intruder was.

Her arm was knocked aside abruptly by a handless arm, and the intruder's remaining hand twisted her wrist, firmly but painlessly, relieving her of her dagger.

She was about to snarl invectives, and demand to be released, when the intruder stepped forward, the light from the main room flickering into the unlit kitchen, illuminating his features.

Emeldir staggered backwards, dizzy, disbelieving. The deep brown eyes that she herself shared, the dark hair (now streaked with grey) and tanned skin (with so many more scars than she remembered), that wry smile that he'd always had, so like to Barahir's... She couldn't keep herself from trembling, even as she reached out, unable to believe she wasn't dreaming. “Beren?” She could barely force herself to voice his name, half convinced this was a dream.

Beren stepped closer, pulling her into a tentative embrace. “Hello, Mother.”

It seemed that her son was not alone: another figure hung back, in the shadowy kitchen, but Emeldir paid little heed: the Enemy himself could have marched into her home and she would not have noticed now, as her face crumpled and she clung to her son, struggling to hold back tears, her mind dazed with shock. “Beren... my boy... is it really you?”

Could this be real? Had he finally returned to her at last?


	2. Chapter 2

Emeldir blinked back tears of joy and finally stepped back, but only so that she could cup Beren's face in her hands. She shook her head, still disbelieving. “I'm afraid I will wake and find this has been a dream.”

Beren placed his sole surviving hand atop hers, clasping it gently. “Mother, this is real, I promise. I am here. I would have come sooner, but, well...” He glanced back over his shoulder, at the figure who'd accompanied him, still lingering in the shadows. “A great deal has happened of late.”

Clinging to her son's hand as if it were a lifeline, Emeldir could only nod. “I can only imagine. You and your... guest should come and be seated so we can talk.” She tried to get just a glimpse of whoever was with her son, but her eyes couldn't pierce the unlit gloom of the kitchen. She managed a wry smile. “I cannot imagine that whatever you have endured can be worse than some of the tall tales that have spread around Brethil of late!” She chuckled, expecting Beren to join in with her- surely he'd heard some of the exaggerated nonsense about his supposed deeds as well? Instead, he looked almost... sheepish?

“Mother, I think it best you hear the most important news first.” Releasing her hand, he reached back, extending his hand towards his companion, who stepped forward into the light, but remained hooded and cloaked in dark blue. The person was some inches taller than Beren, and Emeldir could see the almost unnaturally pale slender hand clasping her son's larger brown one, but she could make out nothing else.

A nod from Beren seemed to be a signal of some kind, and slowly, the person eased the hood back.

Emeldir almost staggered, gasping. She had seen Elves a few times, but never had she seen one so fair as this! Rippling waves of blue-black hair, alabaster skin, with eyes grey as the twilight, she seemed to give off a radiant light of her own. Instinctively, Emeldir found herself curtsying- whoever this was, she had to be some noble, but why an Elda royal would be with her son... “G-greetings, my lady.” She just managed to whisper, her mind reeling. The rumors of Beren she had heard mentioned King Thingol's daughter, even linked them romantically, but surely, _surely_ that could not be true, this could not be she, standing in Emeldir's own home!

The elf-woman stepped closer, a kind smile on her face. “There is no need to speak so formally to me.” And, to Emeldir's utter shock, the elf took her work-roughened hand in her own. “I am pleased to finally meet the mother of my beloved,” Here she shot a warm look at Beren, and Emeldir noted with amazement that upon her slender hand she bore the golden ring, wrought as two serpents, one devouring, one crowned in flowers, that had been given to Barahir by Felagund himself!

“This is the detail I wished you to know first, Mother.” Beren linked his arm through the elf's, while Emeldir felt paralyzed with shock: this _had_ to be a dream, and soon she would wake, surely? “It is fitting that you should come to know my wife, Lúthien of Doriath.”

 _His wife?_ Dazed, and far from sure this was real, Emeldir simply decided to react as if all this were completely normal, nothing at all out of place, even as her hands trembled. “Come and be seated. It seems you have a great deal to tell me.” That, and if she didn't sit soon, she feared her legs would simply give way beneath her. Taking her accustomed chair, she gestured towards the remaining two, watching the pair closely as they took their seats. They held hands, exchanged tender glances and were clearly deeply in love. But how had such a thing come to pass?

It did not feel right to her to gaze too long upon the elf, whether said elf was apparently her law-daughter now or not, so she focused her attention on Beren, trying to regain some sense of control in this situation. “I hardly know where to start, Beren. The last sure tidings I had of you said that you were a sole outlaw, fighting the Enemy's forces, after the loss of your father.” Grief swelled her throat for a moment, but she kept her eyes on her son's. “Some said you had passed into the region of Ered Gorgoroth, and I feared you dead.”

Beren's face turned grave, but only for an instant. “That is true, but I do not wish to speak of that.”

Lúthien rested her hand on his in a clear gesture of comfort, and the bleak look faded from his face. Emeldir simply nodded. “Very well, then: what became of you afterwards? As I said, I have heard many tales, each more far-fetched than the next, however,” here she glanced at Lúthien, at the ring on her wedding finger, fighting the irrational urge to blush as if she were a child spying upon an elder. “Clearly some parts of the rumors were true.”

The two exchanged a long look before Beren spoke again. “I eventually found my way from Ered Gorgoroth into the forests of Doriath. I was... not myself, and sought only shelter at first. As time passed, I saw Lúthien on occasion, and I can assure you she led me on quite a chase before I was able to get to know her properly!” His eyes were twinkling, and Lúthien let out a silvery laugh, more beautiful than anything Emeldir had ever heard. “We had a beautiful summer in the woods, getting to know each other, but then...” Beren paused before continuing. “King Thingol learned of my presence, and-”

“I brought him into Menegroth and presented him to my father.” Lúthien took over the narrative. Emeldir knew her son well enough to know when he was choosing his words with great care, and she suspected Lúthien was doing the same, but let them continue. She would wrest more details from Beren later if need be. “He was not best pleased with our unusual courtship, and set a high bride-price, to determine if Beren was truly worthy of me. Too high, but I suppose fathers must prize their daughters above all else.”

Emeldir's hands clenched on the arms of her chair, knuckles whitening. “I heard rumor of this, but dismissed it as outrageous.” She almost spoke through gritted teeth. “The tales say that you were asked to fetch a Silmaril from the Enemy's Iron Crown.” Her eyes locked on her son. “Beren, tell me you never attempted such folly!”

He avoided her gaze. “I'm afraid I cannot, Mother, but we achieved our goal, in the end.”

“You cannot mean you actually accepted such a quest?! Of all the insanity-” Emeldir would have continued scolding him, as she would have when Beren had been younger, but Lúthien getting to her feet silenced her better than if the elf had shouted.

“There was much loss and suffering involved for us to gain our desire, Mother, for so I shall call you, as you are my husband's mother, but what's done is done. Loosing anger over past deeds, madness or not, will not undo them. Is it not enough that your son and I both live, and have found happiness together?”

Emeldir exhaled heavily as Lúthien resumed her seat, settling into Beren's embrace, laying her head upon his shoulder as he stared down at the stump of his missing hand, his expression haunted. She closed her eyes for a long moment, deep in thought, considering Lúthien's words. Whatever had taken place in the years she had not seen her son, he was back in her life now, he was well, if not entirely whole, and he had found himself a love and married her.

Marriage between an Elf and a Man had never happened before, to Emeldir's knowledge, but Beren seemed happy, she could tell, as she opened her eyes and saw how closely Beren and Lúthien now sat, the elf whispering softly to him, love and concern shining in her eyes, until Beren visibly relaxed. Emeldir let out a deep sigh.

“As you said... law-daughter,” and oh, it felt strange to address this beautiful, ethereal elf by such a title! “What's done is done. Beren, I apologize if my fright at your tale hurt you, I meant no harm.” She laced her hands together and leaned forward. “That said, I _do_ find I wish to know how you managed such an incredible feat as claiming a Silmaril, and returned alive. Will you tell me what happened, or as much as you can? I only wish to understand what your life has been like since we parted.” _And Valar, Eru, whomever is listening, let this tale not be as terrible as I fear!_


End file.
